


Willing to Be Proved Wrong (Or, How Percy Weasley Fought the Magic of Christmas and Lost)

by Eleos



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Book 6: Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince, Christmas Eve, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-24
Updated: 2014-12-24
Packaged: 2018-03-03 07:05:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,031
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2842331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Eleos/pseuds/Eleos
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Percy Weasley didn’t believe in fate. He didn't believe in luck, destiny, or serendipity, and he certainly didn't believe in the magic of Christmas. A surprise encounter with Oliver Wood may just change his mind.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Willing to Be Proved Wrong (Or, How Percy Weasley Fought the Magic of Christmas and Lost)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [csichick_2](https://archiveofourown.org/users/csichick_2/gifts).



> This fic was written as a gift for [csichick_2](csichick_2.livejournal.com) for the [Multifandom Christmas Gift Exchange](multifan-gift.livejournal.com) and is set during Half Blood Prince. Thanks so much to [digthewriter](digthewriter.livejournal.com) for beta reading this story. :)

Percy Weasley didn’t believe in fate. He didn’t believe in luck, destiny, providence, or serendipity. And he certainly gave no credence to the "magic of Christmas." While the rest of the world seemed to have given themselves over to holiday-induced superstition—telling stories of love at first sight under the mistletoe and of families miraculously reunited at Christmas—Percy Weasley was firmly grounded in reality and fact.

Which was why, as he entered the Leaky Cauldron at eleven o’clock on a dreary Christmas Eve, Percy didn’t expect anything life-changing to happen. He didn’t read Christmas cheer into the bell on the door that tinkled as he entered or look forward to swapping nostalgic stories with the strangers he would meet at the bar. 

Instead, Percy surveyed the pub for suspicious persons, the habit second nature by now. He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named was back, and the number of mysterious deaths and disappearances were increasing all the time. They lived in dangerous times, holidays or no.

The Leaky was nearly deserted. A plump, balding wizard and his gray-haired wife sat in a corner booth, spelling a drooping piece of mistletoe to float over each other’s heads and giggling—they were clearly heavily intoxicated and likely not a threat. A couple of young men were chatting to Tom at the bar; Percy vaguely recognized them as Hufflepuffs a few years above him. Could potentially be dangerous, but they seemed genuinely immersed in their discussion of the latest Weird Sisters album. Celestina Warbeck’s “I’m Prophesying Christmas Love” played dimly in the background. Needless to say, Percy didn’t give the song a second thought.

“Hello, Tom,” Percy addressed the gruff barman once he was satisfied the pub was safe. “I’ll have a Firewhisky please.”

“Rough day, eh, Weasley? And on Christmas Eve?”

“You could say that. I’d rather not discuss it.”

“All right, suit yourself,” said Tom, sliding a glass to Percy across the bar.

“Thanks,” said Percy, sipping the amber liquid. _I’m going to need a few of these tonight,_ he thought. The Christmas holiday was bad enough as it was. Then to be dragged along by Minister Scrimgeour to the Burrow—just to ask Potter to be poster boy for the Ministry… Well, the proof that his promotion was being used to gain access to Harry Potter was clear for his family to see. He could’ve handled his mother’s sobbing, much as it pained him, but his siblings’ clear hatred had stung. He wasn’t heartless. 

Percy knocked back the rest of his whiskey, grimacing as it burned a trail down his throat. _Well,_ he reasoned, _If they can’t see past appearances to what I’m_ really _doing, then that’s their fault, not mine._

He was so immersed in his thoughts that he almost didn’t hear the loud Scottish lilt calling to him from across the pub. 

“Percy? Percy Weasley?” 

Percy whipped his head around. And blinked. Oliver Wood, of all people, was walking through the Diagon Alley side door, looking wind-blown and grinning like an idiot.

Percy recovered quickly. “Oliver? Er, hello.” He hadn’t seen Oliver since Hogwarts. He quickly tried to recall when he’d last heard of the Scottish Keeper. Kingsley had mentioned him a few months ago, after the Death Eater attack on the Wood family’s home. He’d said something about knowing Percy and Oliver were in the same year at Hogwarts, and insinuated that Oliver’s parents had gone into hiding… _Ah, so that’s why he’s alone on Christmas Eve._

“Fancy seeing you here,” said Oliver, approaching the bar. “I was just talking to Fred and George the other day.” He slapped Percy on the shoulder. “But, you know, crazier things have happened at Christmas.”

Percy thought it was more likely because neither of them could be with their families than because it was Christmas. “Indeed,” he said.

It was still a remarkable coincidence, and not an entirely unpleasant one. Oliver and he had gotten along well enough in school—Percy’d had a bit of crush on him, to be honest—but they hadn’t kept in contact after. And with Percy’s fight with his family, he’d pretty much assumed that all of his Gryffindor schoolmates would’ve revolted against him by default. He couldn’t expect them to understand.

But Oliver was grinning. “It’s good to see you, Percy. Blimey, it’s been years.” 

Taking in the other man’s appearance, Percy realized the truth of this statement. Oliver seemed stronger, more muscular than Percy remembered, his square chin covered with stubble he’d had trouble growing back at Hogwarts. Oliver had grown up a lot since then.

Realizing he’d been staring, Percy nodded. “It’s, er, nice to see you too.” And he actually meant it.

“Mind if I join you?”

And even if coincidences like this didn’t happen for some grand cosmic reason, or simply because it was Christmas, Percy figured that on a lonely and dreary night, he might as well take advantage of the universe’s idiosyncrasies. “Sure,” he said. “Why not?”

* * *

Two rounds of Firewhisky later, Oliver and Percy were sitting at a booth in the back of the Leaky Cauldron, their initial awkwardness gone. Percy didn’t normally drink much in front of others, but he had to admit he was actually enjoying himself.

“You’re playing for Puddlemere, right?”

“Yeah, just on the reserve team for now. Though with the way things are looking lately, it’s only a matter of time before they disband the Quidditch league.” He shook his head. “They’re nutters if they do, though. People need Quidditch, especially now. Keeps up morale.”

“And you wouldn’t know what to do with yourself if you couldn’t play.”

Oliver grinned. “Well, there is that.”

“Puddlemere’s doing well this season. Beat the Harpies 270 to 130 last week, right?”

“You saw the match?” 

“Well, I listened to it on the wireless,” said Percy. “Couldn’t get away from work. But I do try to keep up. Your chances are pretty good for the British finals this year—though the Arrows might give you a run for your money, with that new seeker of theirs.”

“Yeah, Campbell’s ace, but our seeker’s just as good. And Puddlemere’s got our secret weapon, of course.” Oliver winked. “Me.”

Percy laughed. Whether it was the alcohol or Oliver’s easy friendliness, he found himself relaxing. “Well, if Wadsworth falls off her broom and you get to step in as Keeper, let me know. I remember your ferocity on the Quidditch pitch from school. I’d make time to come see _that_ game.”

“I forgot that you liked Quidditch. I mean, I know we must’ve talked about it at Hogwarts, but with you not being on the team…”

“I didn’t want to take time away from my studies.” Percy shrugged. “I was aiming to make Head Boy since my first year; I knew I wouldn’t get it if I didn’t give one hundred percent to my schoolwork. And I’m not that talented on a broom, to be honest. That doesn’t mean I don’t care for the sport.” He chuckled. “Believe it or not, even I need to relax every now and then.”

“Good on you,” said Oliver. “Though, now I think about it, I do seem to remember you betting on a number of our matches—I was surprised at the time when I heard you gloating about winning ten Galleons off Penny Clearwater on a match. Didn’t peg you for the gambling sort.”

“I didn’t _gloat._ ”

“Oh, yes you did—for nearly a week afterward. I’m surprised the girl didn’t break up with you then.” Oliver shook his head, grinning. “How is she anyway?”

“I wouldn’t know. We broke up a few months after graduation. Haven’t really kept in contact since…” 

“Oh, that’s too bad.”

“It’s all right. It wasn’t working out. No point regretting what you can’t change.”

Oliver raised his eyebrow skeptically. “I suppose, but you can’t just will your emotions away,” he said.

“You can if you try hard enough.” 

Oliver laughed. “Right. Might have to disagree with you there. And, if I remember correctly, you seemed pretty infatuated with Penny back at Hogwarts. I highly doubt you recovered from that relationship as well as you claim.”

“Yes, well, I was very impressionable then.” He had locked himself in his room for a month. Not that Oliver needed to know that. Percy frequently felt frustrated at himself for not being able to live up to his own standards. “Perhaps,” he admitted, “I can concede your point. I don’t have much experience. I’m far too busy for any sort of romance. Theoretically, it would be nice, of course, but there are so many more pressing matters to focus on.”

“I agree with you there,” Oliver said, waving at Tom to bring them another round of drinks. “I may only be reserve keeper, but my practice and travel schedule keeps me too busy for anything long-term. Quidditch is the only love I’ll ever need.” He grinned. “You’ve not had any relationships since Penny, then?”

“No. Well,” Percy said, considering, “not of the conventional bring-them-home-to-mum sort. Not that I’m speaking to my mother at present…” His eyes darkened. “But I’ve had a couple of casual flings.”

Oliver laughed. “You’re pulling my leg, right?” he said. “Because the Percy Weasley I knew at Hogwarts did not have _flings_.”

“And how would you know—”

“Seventh year, didn’t you actually calculate the probability of McGonagall catching Smithy Daniels with Abigail Porter in his bed, then present the results to him?” Oliver snorted. “Not that walking in on them in our dorm wasn’t bloody annoying. Still, there were color-coded graphs.”

“Well, yes—”

“I remember, you said that ‘recklessness was not the same as bravery’ and that his ‘foolhardy hanky panky’ would cost Gryffindor house points.” Oliver’s eyes were alight with amusement. “It’s one of my favorite Hogwarts memories. The look on his face was priceless.”

Percy clicked his tongue. “The situation with Smithy was entirely different,” he said. “I didn’t object to his _activities_.” Percy scrunched his nose. “Just to his reckless manner of pursuing them. He didn’t even cast Silencing Charms.”

“I’m sorry,” Oliver amended, still chuckling. “I didn’t mean to offend, Perce. Having a casual fling, though—I don’t know, it just seems so…un-like you.”

“Yes, I know. Perfect Prefect Percy couldn’t possibly let loose enough to have a fling, right?” Percy rolled his eyes. He couldn’t really be cross with him. Percy had always thought Oliver had a stunning smile, but his whole face was illuminated when he laughed, from his wide grin to the crinkled skin around his green eyes. Anyway, between his parents and the war, Percy thought it likely that Oliver hadn’t really smiled in a while. 

“Your drinks, lads,” said Tom, setting their Firewhisky on the table. “Though next time, Wood, you can come up to the bar. Lazy sods.”

“Thanks, Tom,” Oliver called to the barman’s retreating back. He turned to Percy. “Seriously, I didn’t mean anything by it. Just wasn’t expecting anything less than wholehearted, long-term commitment from you.”

Percy grinned wryly. “I’m used to it by now. I’d like to think, however, that I’ve changed _some_ since Hogwarts.”

“Of course. We all have.”

“And, really,” Percy said, “It makes perfect sense. Obviously, I don’t believe in leading anybody on…but if both parties are amenable, well, it leaves me more time to focus on my career. No strings.”

Oliver shook his head. “That’s very…pragmatic of you. But now I have to know. Who’s the lucky girl? Or girls?” 

Percy blushed. “Well, if you must know, the most recent was Michael Stretton, actually.” 

“Oh.” Oliver’s eyes flicked to Percy’s. “But Michael is…erm, I mean.”

“Yes?” Percy raised his eyebrows imperiously, but his hands were shaking around his Firewhisky glass.

Oliver grinned. “I was just going to say that Michael’s really fit. You lucky bastard. Not that I’m surprised.” He winked. “Personally, I wouldn’t mind a chance with his younger brother.”

Percy relaxed. “Jeremy? Really?” From what Percy remembered, Michael’s brother was a gangly Ravenclaw with curly hair and a passion for applying Arithmantic calculations to Quidditch plays. 

“Oh, yeah. Bloke was right fit, and a hell of a Chaser too—even if he was the enemy. Wanted to ask him out all sixth year, but, alas, he’s straight.” Oliver shrugged. “What can you do?”

Percy shrugged. “It happens. I must confess I’m a bit surprised though. I wouldn’t have pegged him as your type.” 

“Oh? And what is my type, then?”

“I don’t know.” Percy gestured inarticulately. “Someone...erm, brawny. Striking. Devilishly handsome.”

Oliver snorted. “You sound like one of my mum’s romance novels.”

“Yes, well,” Percy said primly, pushing the memory of his traumatic discovery of his own mother’s stash of poorly written erotica out of his mind. “I don’t actually gossip about men very often. I’m sorry if I don’t have the requisite vocabulary.”

“All right. Don’t get your knickers in a twist,” Oliver smiled. “‘Devilishly handsome’ is nice, of course, but I’m not really into muscular guys. I mean, of course, it depends on the person. And an interest in Quidditch certainly doesn’t hurt.” He winked. “But I like guys who can hold a decent conversation. And they’ve got to be intelligent, certainly.” Oliver met Percy’s eyes. “You’re not the only one who’s stereotyped. For every person who’s assumed you have a stick up your arse, there’s another who thinks I’m a dumb jock—that I eat, sleep, and breathe Quidditch.”

Percy raised his eyebrows at that last.

“Well, perhaps I _am_ a bit obsessed, but that doesn’t mean I’m brainless.”

“Of course not,” Percy said. “I’ve always thought you quite intelligent.”

It was Oliver’s turn to look skeptical. “You? For all you pestered me about not studying enough for my NEWTs? You made me a bloody timetable, for Merlin’s sake!”

“Yes, well, I may have been a bit overzealous—” 

Oliver coughed pointedly. 

“I still maintain that good organization is the first step toward success. However,” Percy continued, “I hardly would’ve bothered if I thought you were hopeless. You were always in the top ten in our year, even with your rigorous Quidditch training. You just had different priorities. If you’d put half the energy into your schoolwork you did into Quidditch, you might easily have beaten me to Head Boy.” 

“Erm, thanks,” said Oliver. 

Percy had never seen Oliver blush before. He thought it was quite a nice look on him. 

“Regardless,” Oliver continued, “I wouldn’t have wanted it. That was always your thing—and you deserved it.” 

Oliver met his eyes, and Percy could see his own reflection flickering in Oliver’s. His mouth felt dry. “Thanks,” he said, wrenching his eyes away. “Erm, anyway, so, you were talking about how much you like intelligent men?”

Oliver licked his lips. Percy wondered if that was a conscious move. Was this how normal people flirted? 

“Yes,” Oliver continued. “Intelligence is very important, but so is ambition. Drive, you know? I need a man who knows what he wants and how to get it.” He thought for a moment. “Not a teammate though. You know how competitive I am.”

“Yes, I agree. I’d rather not have any kind of relationship with someone in my department. Not that I can trust most of the people at the Ministry now anyway…” He cleared his throat. _There I go bringing_ that _up again._

“Why _are_ you still at the Ministry? If I can ask.”

Percy downed the rest of his drink, feeling lightheaded. He could attribute it to the alcohol, but somehow this question he would’ve avoided earlier felt perfectly natural now. Talking about the Ministry in public was risky—especially given his real position—but Percy hadn’t had a genuine conversation with someone he could trust in what felt like years. _And after all,_ he thought, _what do I have left to lose?_ He glanced around the pub. This late on a drizzly and cold Christmas Eve, the Leaky was nearly deserted, but one could never be too careful.

“If you don’t want to talk about it, that’s okay.” 

“No, it’s fine.” And he was surprised to find it actually was. Oliver was someone he could trust, though how Percy knew this he couldn’t tell you. It was a _feeling_ —and Percy Weasley did not listen to feelings. He must’ve had too much to drink because normally this kind of uncertainty would frighten him. But Oliver was sitting there, smiling hesitantly and playing with a fraying thread on his emerald green jumper—and suddenly uncertainty seemed okay. Good, even. Percy wondered for the first time what it might be like to kiss Oliver Wood. Percy Weasley didn’t believe in serendipity or fate, but he did believe in making the most of every opportunity. _Well, in for a Knut…_ “You want to come back to my flat?” 

Oliver blinked in surprise. “Yeah,” he said, his face splitting into a broad grin. “Yeah, I’d like that.”

* * *

Sitting on the serviceable brown couch in Percy’s sitting room, Percy found himself unable to speak. What had seemed so easy to talk about at the Leaky was suddenly insurmountably difficult when it was just the two of them in his flat. Lost in Oliver’s eyes, Percy had momentarily forgotten _why_ exactly they’d come back here—what Oliver had wanted to discuss. Percy had offered to make tea, busying himself in the kitchen to hide his nerves. But now all the tea was poured, milk added, biscuits offered, and Oliver was lounging on his couch, staring intently at Percy but refusing to speak. He wasn’t going to make this easy for him, Percy suspected. Not that he blamed him. The wind outside was blowing fiercely, its eerie whistling only punctuated by the crackle of the fire in the grate.

“You said you’d tell me about the Ministry?” Oliver asked at last. “Because, honestly, the Percy Weasley I’ve met tonight is a far cry from the Percy I imagined walking out on his family.”—Percy winced—“Because I really like the Percy I met tonight.” Oliver met his eyes. “I _felt_ something with him. But I’m not entirely certain if he’s just a front.”

Percy felt a fluttering in his stomach. He forced himself to maintain eye contact. “You must think I’m a coward or a total prat,” he said at last. “Or both. I wouldn’t blame you. I know I made a mistake, choosing the Ministry over my family. But you have to understand—when I got promoted to Junior Assistant to the Minister, I was so happy. I’d been working my arse off, putting in overtime, really trying to do something important. I was making strides in legislation—”

“Right—like reports on cauldron bottom thickness?” 

Percy grimaced. “Fred and George really need to have their feet permanently sewn into their mouths. Yes, I was a little overzealous in my early days at the Ministry, but no one has ever bothered to ask _why_ I was writing that report. It wasn’t for sheer pedantic pleasure, I assure you.” 

Seeing Oliver’s questioning look, he continued, “There were a series of accidents—mostly in Bulgaria, Romania, Serbia, but also a few isolated incidents in Britain. People making potions in their own homes—usually basic household cleaning brews, but you know some of the ingredients in those potions are highly acidic. Still perfectly safe if you get the proportions right, of course, but add one liter of essence of moonshine to your Grout Bleaching Solution instead of one half… Well, the witch who made that mistake nearly lost her foot—potion burned right through the bottom of her cauldron and through her shoes.”

“Blimey.”

“Right?” No one had ever listened to Percy this long, much less seemed so genuinely interested. “Well,” he continued, “regulations are a bit better in Britain than in Eastern Europe, thankfully, but there’ve been a few isolated incidents with some experimental potions…” Percy shrugged. “It seemed like a manageable first project for a junior employee. And standards are standards.” 

Oliver smiled. “Now that sounds like the Percy I knew at Hogwarts. In a good way,” he added. “You’re cute when you’re excited. Sorry for taking the mickey.” 

Percy blushed. “It’s all right. I was a bit of a git about it at the time. Legislation may not be flashy, but it can make a difference. We can’t all charge in half-cocked, denouncing every policy or politician we disagree with, hoping that sheer force of will will be enough to change people’s minds. It won’t.” 

“Is that why you wanted to join the Ministry?”

“Yes. It’s not as exciting as being a curse breaker or a dragon tamer…or a handsome Quidditch player.” He nodded at Oliver. “But someone who knows what he’s doing needs to be keeping tabs on the legislation that forms the basis of our world.”

Oliver’s mouth quirked up. “I’m handsome, am I?” 

Percy rolled his eyes, his blush deepening. “ _That’s_ what stuck out to you from what I said?”

“Sorry.” Oliver ran a hand through his brown hair, unable to suppress his grin. “Can’t help it if you’re distracted by my devastatingly good looks.” 

“And big head.” 

“ _I’m_ not the one everyone used to call ‘Big Head Boy,’ if you’ll remember.”

Percy scoffed. “I hardly think my idiotic brothers count as ‘everyone.’” But his lips quirked upward.

“Seriously, though,” Oliver said. “I may not share your obsession with paperwork, but the Ministry does have a lot of power to shape the way our world works. You want to be in the middle of it, be part of those changes.”

“Exactly.”

“And make a name for yourself.”

“Well, yes. But so did you.” Percy nervously cleaned his glasses on his green jumper, needing to focus on something other than Oliver’s probing stare. “I know I was never the favorite in my family—too swotty, not enough fun—and, rather selfishly, I wanted some validation. Instead, my father told me the only reason I was being promoted was so the Minister could get close to Harry Potter. He didn’t even stop to consider that I might’ve succeeded on my own merits—didn’t even say congratulations before he wrote off my promotion to circumstances beyond my control.” 

“I’m sorry, Perce.” 

“No—he was right.” Percy lifted his eyes to Oliver’s. “After everything, the Minister was probably trying to get to Harry. I should’ve known it couldn’t have been me, not after that Barty Crouch debacle. I was so naïve.” He shook his head. “And now He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named has returned—in the middle of the fucking Ministry. Destroyed half the Department of Mysteries practically underneath Fudge’s nose.” Percy pinched the bridge of his nose. “D’you know how much of a bloody PR nightmare that was?”

“It’s a nightmare in more ways than that, I’d say.”

Percy nodded. “And I thought, well, I was wrong about He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named—and plenty of other things, I can admit—but maybe I could still be useful to the Ministry under Scrimgeour. But who knows how long he’ll be in power now?” Percy glanced around again. Even though they were alone in his heavily warded flat, he lowered his voice. “The Ministry’s changing, and even I can tell it’s not all for the better.”

“Why not leave now, then?” Oliver asked. “I mean, Perce, you’ve made some mistakes—not denying that. But you don’t have to keep making them. Your family would take you back. You could get another job—you’ve got like, ten N.E.W.T.s, after all.”

This was the part Percy couldn’t explain, why he didn’t want to talk about this. “I can’t,” he said. “You don’t understand, but I can’t.”

“Yes, you can!” Oliver said. “Just because you’re scared—” He gesticulated with his hands. “You have to do the hard thing sometimes, Percy, be the bigger person.”

Percy could hear the disappointment in Oliver’s voice. He knew this—whatever it was—was too good to be true. This was why one couldn’t trust in the universe—nothing worked out as neatly as planned. “I don’t expect you to understand,” Percy said slowly, “but I need you to trust me that I’m doing the right thing now.”

“Trust you? I know you’re not a bad bloke, but this is pure stubbornness.”

“Oliver, please. I cannot explain to you—”

“Bollocks!” Oliver pounded his fist on the coffee table, unsettling his half-full teacup. “Your family loves you—misses you! Not everybody has that luxury.” His eyes darkened. “There’s a fucking war on; we could be gone any day, and you won’t reconcile with your family because—why? Job security? Or just pure fucking cowardice?”

“Oliver—”

“But you don’t give a shit about your family—”

Percy grabbed Oliver’s hand where it was flailing wildly. “Of course I do, you prat,” he spat. “Do you think I _like_ knowing that my mother cries over me? That my brothers think I betrayed our family? That Ginny still sends me disappointed letters, letters that I can’t respond to? I care about my family, and my friends, and what will happen to them all if He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named goes undefeated. I think about it. Every. Fucking. Day.”

Oliver paused, taking in Percy’s words. They sat in silence for a moment, staring at each other, listening to Oliver’s heavy breathing, Percy still gripping his hand. Percy willed Oliver to understand, to see past all the lies. He breathed an inward sigh of relief the moment he could see it click for Oliver.

“You’re spying,” Oliver breathed. “Of _course_ you are. Or sabotaging Ministry legislation, or—” He snapped his mouth shut, glancing around. “I won’t ask, but—gods, Perce, I’m right, aren’t I?”

Percy nodded stiffly. 

“If they find out about you…”

“Yes, well, there are some things worth fighting for.” Meeting the other man’s eyes, Percy suddenly realized how close Oliver was, and that they were still holding hands. 

“Yeah.” Oliver’s eyes flicked over Percy. “There are.” 

Oliver’s gaze, Percy thought to himself, was distinctly more than friendly. He knew his own eyes were probably betraying just as much. He couldn’t help it, though, if Oliver’s tousled brown hair was specked with dancing light from the fireplace, or if he was looking at Percy as if he really cared about him—for him. Not that Percy had much experience identifying such a look.

Percy forced himself to speak. “A-and you have to take your chances when you get them. You don’t always get second chances.” He could feel Oliver’s breath on his cheek, and he found it hard to concentrate. “W-which is why, of course, since I’m in the perfect position to—I mean, it seemed only natural that I—”

“Perfectly natural,” said Oliver, then cut off his nervous rambling with a kiss.

The kiss wasn’t earth shattering; it wasn’t the culmination of a long romance, or the passionate meeting of two soul mates united for the first time. It was brief and awkward and Oliver’s lips were chapped, but Percy could never remember feeling so fantastic. He felt giddy, reveling in the feel of Oliver’s mouth on his. 

A flush was spreading across Oliver’s face when he pulled away. “Erm, look,” he said, nervously. “We were having a serious conversation, and I don’t want you to think—I mean, I’m not _just_ here for—”

Percy made a split second decision. On the one hand, he was self-aware enough to admit he was emotionally involved, which was problematic in his current situation. On the other hand, he hadn’t felt this lighthearted in ages. Oliver was giving him an out, and, reasonably, he should take it. But none of this evening had been the result of reason, and it’d been one of the brightest moments Percy had had since He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named’s return. So Percy did something uncharacteristic and arguably sentimental.

_Fuck it,_ Percy thought, and moved forward to straddle Oliver’s lap, pressing his lips to his.

Oliver kissed him back eagerly, slipping a tongue in between his lips. Percy moaned, cradling the back of Oliver’s head. Why had they never done this before? All those years at Hogwarts, he’d thought Oliver attractive but had never thought he’d stood a chance with the charming Quidditch player. Percy sucked on Oliver’s lower lip, pushing him back into the couch.

They were close, but still not close enough, and Percy longed to close the infinitesimal gap between them. A barrier had been broken, and they both knew it. Percy didn’t know how long this feeling would last—this ability to go with his gut and just _feel,_ but he suspected this might be something he’d like to repeat. Oliver slid a tentative hand up the back of his shirt as they kissed, and Percy couldn’t keep himself from grinding into Oliver’s lap. Oliver hissed, reaching down to brush his fingers over the front of Percy’s trousers, and—oh my, that felt bloody _wonderful._

“Mmph,” Oliver said, pulling at the buttons of Percy’s shirt. “You sure you want—” 

Percy kissed him again. “Yes.” Another kiss. “I should think that was obvious.” He grabbed his wand from the coffee table and, with a spell, the rest of his buttons—and Oliver’s—were undone.

“Neat trick,” Oliver grinned. 

Percy’s eyes roamed over Oliver’s toned chest. He licked his lips. “Fred and George aren’t the only ones with a few tricks up their sleeve.”

“Well, you’ll have to teach me.” He smirked mischievously, pushing Percy’s shirt off the rest of the way. “It may take a few sessions for me to get it, though. You always were the smart one.”

Percy groaned into his touch. Gods, it’d been a long time since he’d done this. He kissed along Oliver’s neck. “I’ll make you a study timetable.”

“I was thinking more along the lines of private lessons. I might need some one-on-one tutoring over the holidays.” 

“Well, it’s a lucky thing you ran into me, then.”

Oliver paused, his lips quirking into a grin. “I wouldn’t have thought you believed in luck,” he said.

“I don’t,” said Percy, smiling at the man in front of him. “I don’t believe in luck, or fate, or the magic of Christmas, or any of that rot. But,” he added, giving Oliver another kiss. “I’m willing to be proved wrong.”


End file.
